


The Haze

by directorderek



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4980550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/directorderek/pseuds/directorderek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sally Francis loses her vision, she is forced to cope with her disability and her shifting perspective of the world around her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Haze

Chapter 1: Early-onset

 

Glaucoma took my eyes, but I never lost my sight. In fact, I don’t think I ever truly saw anyone until after the diagnosis.

“Oh, poor Sally! Never to see again.” If only they knew I was seeing more than I ever had before. 

At school it was arranged for me to sit in the first row so I could hear the teacher better, as if that was some condolence. I managed to pick up the deafening sound waves of her stomach growling every hour while I ignored her senseless pitying reverberating in the air. “No visual presentations because we have a _disabled_ classmate.”

_d i s a b l e d_

I fucking hate that word. Every time it’s uttered I visualize it suspended while the succeeding words carry past like descending clef notes on a sheet of music. But “disabled” stays buoyant with shards of ice reaching toward the floor. 

15 years old and already reaching my first anniversary without my eyes. July 14th, 1961, I was sitting in Dr. Emerson’s office right off Melbury. Squinting through the vignetted haze, I watched his chapped lips mutter flamboyant terms such as “ _early-onset_ ” and “ _open-angled_ ” and “ _probably not curable._ ” My father began to weep, but I was stoic. Dr. Emerson was clearly uncomfortable with Mayor Francis whimpering in his office, but I couldn’t get my mind off of Dr. Emerson’s stench: musty Grandpa chardonnay. I recall smiling in that moment.

My father still cries some nights after telling me that I am no different than anyone else. My bedroom walls vibrate with his grieving and dry-heaving as I hold back a giggle. Betty, my mother, doesn’t talk to me. Her daily schedule is imprinted in the fore-end of my skull: wake up, eat high-fiber cereal, feed the dog while reading the Comics page in the newspaper, pack a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and at 8:35 sharp leave for a self-absorbed commute to attend her classes at the university. She probably listens to talk radio about parents dealing with problem children. Before the haze took my eyes, I believed she could handle the world.

 


End file.
